"It's intolerable," he said. "I'm not going to be made a child!" Mrs. Labouchere caught the words, "a child."

"Who will be bold enough to do that? No, you have too much spirit. I should not venture on such an attempt.”

Something in her look, something in her tone-so meaning, so overflowing with significance-struck Livy, that it almost filled her heart with terror; for in that moment the wings of the scene seemed to be drawn away, and there seemed to be revealed at her feet the abyss before her family, with all its dangers and terrors. It struck a perfect chill to her young soul, from the suddenness and unexpectedness of the view. There, at the edge-instead of the agree able, conventional lady of society—was a hideous, ever-leering siren, whose skinny fingers seemed to clasp his arm, and try to drag him over, with a hideous marine coquetry. While he—well, he was her foolish, good-natured Beauty of a father.

His song, however, was sung-was received with the usual absurd enthusiasm; and Lady Shipley rose up, and rushed over to congratulate. She-unconsciously, perhaps-drove one more nail into the coffin of their domestic happiness.

"My dear Mr. Talbot, you have a divine voice. How Mrs. Talbot must be enchanted at hearing you entertain your friends in this way. It must be charming."

Mrs. Labouchere was more and more emboldened.

"A prophet, or a singer, is nothing in his own country, or at home. We found out Mr. Talbot, and brought him forward. Mrs. Talbot is quite too diffident about his merits. By-and-by, we shall make him burst on the London public. I am laying the train already, Mr. Talbot. We know people that will be enchanted to hear you sing, that will get up parties for you-regular concerts. I say, and Lady Shipley thinks so, too, that it is a shame to have such a voice buried in the suburbs. He must be brought out."

"Oh, he must be brought out," said Lady Shipley.

Delightful all this for the Beauty, who seemed to murmur and quiver with satisfaction-not very distinctly though. Terrible almost for Mrs. Talbot, who had lost all her power of cut and thrust, either from helplessness, or from want of spirit. Something of her old training did not desert her.

The guests clustered round; Colonel Fotheringham-now an ardent friend and admirer-led him over, and once more the blushing Beauty gave out his famous song. A perfect roar of applause greeted

it, for, under pressure of his wrongs, and stimulated by public support, he gave it out with unusual fire. He seemed to himself as if he was the statue of some public man on a pedestal: and it was wonderful the secret indignation he felt towards those who grudged him his popularity. Mrs. Talbot, whose nerves and moral muscles seemed to be relaxing every hour, sat afar off, writhing almost as her enemy sat at the piano, and played without expression, and every now and again looked up with smiling approval and approbation, into the face of the gentleman she was accompanying. Never had he sung so well, Mrs. Labouchere told him: low encouragement, "beautiful! charming!" audible even to his wife's ears, stimulated him. And at the end, flushed, victorious, he stood there, the centre of universal acclaim, and felt a resentful feeling against those who would not lend him their sympathies in his triumph.

When he was done, she rose up to go. She interrupted the chorus of "charming!"-" admirable!" by asking for their carriage. Mrs. Labouchere, without rising from the piano, said carelessly, "Why, we are only beginning the night; we are going to have more songs."

"So sorry," said Mrs. Talbot, with trembling lips, "to interfere with your plans, but it is late."

"Not at all," said the other, "quite early, I assure you. We can't spare you, Mr. Talbot, I assure you. Can we, Lady Shipley?"

"My dear, he is a treasure. Such an organ. I assure you, Mrs. Talbot, you don't half value him, not half. Oh, sing on, sing us more of your little things, Mr. Talbot."

"We must go," said Mrs. Talbot, turning to her husband; "would you ask for the carriage ?"

"Oh, folly, nonsense!" he said, in a testy whisper. "Don't make a fool of yourself. You are ridiculous."

"What?"

"Don't make yourself a fool," he repeated, his eyes flashing, and forgetting all his usual traditions of the gentleman; "you may go home if you like."

"You would not let us go home by ourselves, would you?

"I don't mean to stir. I'm not a child to be ordered home in

this way!"

Livy heard all this, every word. So did her lover, or her late lover, who made a remonstrance.

"Do stay a little longer. They are all doing so."

"I tell you what," Mrs. Labouchere said suddenly, as if from an inspiration, "Lady Shipley will leave Mr. Talbot at home; that will

satisfy Mrs. Talbot. Won't it?" she added, addressing that lady with a sort of mocking and smiling air. "Poor Mr. Talbot, he has all our sympathies. The school-gates are shut, I suppose, at midnight, and the master flogs all the truant boys."

"Oh, how funny!" he said.

"Not at all.

There is no master and no flogging."

"I am going home with Lady Shipley. Tom will be quite enough to take care of you."

"Papa, papa!" whispered Livy in an agitated way. "Oh, you will come, you must come !"

He turned on her with an angry look. But he said nothing, and turned away. Mrs. Talbot carried out the poor attempt at a smile, and at indifference. Mrs. Labouchere, as it were, pressing on her, as she retreated, yet still restrained by perfect politeness, fired the last gun.

"We shall take care of him. Perhaps we shall keep him prisoner, and shall not let him back till to-morrow."

"Stay the night; I declare a very good idea," said Mr. Hardman. "My dear Talbot, use no ceremony. We could put up regiments here."

The unfortunate Mrs. Talbot could not endure much more of this; all her strength and spirit was leaving her fast. She turned to go,

and took her host's arm. All the way down he kept chatting in his pompous way. "It makes no difference, ma'am, to us, who stay or who do not. We have always the spare rooms ready. Your husband would be very comfortable if he chose to remain," &c. hear.

She did not

On their way back neither mother nor daughter spoke. Livy heard her mother's sobs: in the darkness she could not see her face. She clung to her and clasped her again and again, and in that long agony came to a resolution which had dimly occurred to her before now, as the sole desperate solution of the crisis. As the carriage swept up their little avenue she had determined on it irrevocably.

She said nothing of it to any one. Her mother was sobbing hysterically on the sofa. She was beaten-could never fight again. The long struggle was over. They were to sit up to wait for him to return.

"Oh, heavens above!" said the wretched lady. "What have I done to deserve all this? It was a miserable day when these people came to this place; a more miserable one still when we contracted that wretched engagement. What infatuation was over us! Such a

degrading thing could only bring us misery. Oh, Livy, Livy, your happiness has cost us a terrible sacrifice."

Livy could only think of the conventional way of making light of all.

“After all, dearest, what is it? He wishes to amuse himself.”

"Wishes to amuse himself! Sport to him, death to me! He is gone, ruined; lost to us! And, Livy dear, I do not grudge it to you, though your marriage has been bought so dear. But it is a sort of judgment on me; for there was a time when I used to sacrifice others, as carelessly as I am now sacrificed myself. You deserve to be happy, dearest, at any cost; for you have been a sweet, good child, and have done your best to make me happy. It has failed."

All this, it will be said, about a gentleman staying behind at a dinner party, to sing his little songs! But this acute lady of fashion saw further; and saw, too, that the beginning of the end was at hand. That staying behind to sing his little songs meant far more. Then her daughter had left her. With a pang she thought how selfish all the world was. Here were two people, and their happiness, sacrificed for her. She ought to be grateful, indeed. But no one could grudge it to her.

Absent some half hour, the young girl returned, smiling and cheerful. No signs still of the Beauty. It came to midnight-then one o'clock. The gates were closed. There could be no hope after that. The banner of defiance was flaunted in their faces; he was losing even decency. Then a cold calm came over Mrs. Talbot, and, with a genuine Roman stoicism, she resigned herself, and went to her room.

"Tom! Tom!" said Livy, eagerly-she had stolen down"oblige me by running up the road and putting this letter in the pillar-box."

Tom got his hat, and took care to read the direction privately. "She be mortially in luf," Tom said, "that she can't wait till morning."

CHAPTER X.

A GALLANT SACRIFICE.

THE Beauty, indeed, had remained; but came down next morning, feeling a little guilty. He had an uneasy feeling that he had taken some step that was too bold, and might turn out dangerous. He awoke early and grew uncomfortable, and went down to walk out in the garden before any one was up, and think angrily over his wrongs. VOL. IV., N. S. 1870.

It was growing intolerable. He would not put up with preaching to him before people, insulting those who were kind to him, and going on in that ridiculous, stupid way, which no one else did. Surely that business of the picture spoke volumes! Surely

"Out so early!" said the soft voice of Mrs. Labouchere, close behind him.

She had a black lace scarf, Spanish fashion, about her head, to keep off the morning air, and looked brilliant, indeed;—at least, foolish Mr. Talbot thought so. Here was one that really understood, and he could not but like and feel grateful too.

"I am so glad you stayed," she went on; "even though I was sorry to see Mrs. Talbot did not. Why is it that she is so set against every little thing that seems to give you pleasure? I assure you it is a subject of speculation with many; and you are so gentle and quiet, and bear it so angelically."

"Oh, I don't bear it, and won't.

Of course, one doesn't choose to make a fuss about trifles, always. It's not manners." "Even that old viper, Lumley, said something about training, and all that. Malicious creature! I don't know how to train; I wish I did. You would do nothing for me, with all my training."

"I would do a great deal," said the Beauty, proudly. "You can't imagine how I admire and like you. Since I have known you I seem to feel more independent. With you I have spent many happy hours; I assure you I have," he added, bending, by way of his best compli"Someway, with you I am always so much at home, and so happy. Whereas, at home--"

"Oh," she said, with enthusiasm, "how kind-how nice-how good of you to say! That is the most welcome thing I have heard, I don't know for how long!"

"How?" he asked, blushing.

"It was natural and genuine, and I like it for that. It is long since I, much of the world as I have seen, have heard such. But can I tell you-out of what you must call my own selfishness— nothing else, that in that kindness, as you consider it, to you, I have been consulting only my own humour-following my own whim, if you like to call it so."

"How do you mean?" said the Beauty, colouring still more.

"You know, then, what sort of life has been mine. How full of trouble, and wretchedness, and misunderstanding. My hurried marriage with him. Yet even then your wife interfered; did her best to injure me. I have forgiven her for that, long ago. She must do me so much justice."